


Unforgivable

by tofty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-30
Updated: 2006-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/tofty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never get drunk with Snape.  Especially not if you're a Marauder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgivable

It's not that I hate Sirius Black because he and your other miserable friends made my life in school a living hell. Oh, all right, certainly, it is that, to some degree; don't give me that look. What I mean is that I might grow past my school days--I am told that indignation over childhood injustices fades in time, though for my part I have seen no evidence of it--if only there weren't reminders surrounding me almost every minute of every day. If only Black's privileged, mead-soaked face were not glaring at me over a table twice a week. If only you did not phrase your every remark to me as a subtle apology. If only Pettigrew could rid himself of that hint of sniggering glee in even his most cringing addresses. If only The Dark Lord had made good his intentions fifteen years ago and killed the entire Potter family rather than most of it.

Or perhaps not, indeed. I am a resentful man. I hold a grudge. I admit it freely. I doubt there'd be over-much to keep me alive, in fact, if I were to divest myself of this urge to thwart everyone and everything who ever wronged me. That list is superbly long, as no doubt you'll have guessed. As things stand, I might just live to be five hundred on the strength of that list alone, and so I hold it close to me. I remember every slight, every cruelty, every instance of neglect.

What I mean to say is that is not all. That is not the only reason. You've all earned my wrath, would you argue with that? You and Black nearly killed me. Pettigrew possesses the gift of infuriating without ever opening his whinging mouth, as you know perfectly well. Potter probably stays up nights thinking up ways to torture me to death with petty infractions and childish jinxes, and I am happy--more than happy--to return that particular favour.

But with Black it's something different. Even if there were not a past history of resentment between us, I would still hate him. I might not hate the rest of you, who's to say? Think you weak in human form and dangerous in wolf form; think Pettigrew contemptible and treacherous; think Potter-and-Son far too self-satisfied and reckless for their own good. I would like none of you--I _like_ no one I can think of--but I wouldn't hate any of you in the specific way that I do if we hadn't spent all our youths at each others' throats, in some instances quite literally.

Here's why I would still hate Black.

You think, I believe, that James and I hated each other because I wanted what he had? You are very wrong about that. James hated me because he hated what he thought I stood for, as if I've ever stood for any one thing, and I hated him because he clearly hated me, and that is all.

It's Black, you see. Black who had what I wanted. Black who not only didn't appreciate his own good fortune, but actually threw it all away. Threw away a pureblood family rich in pedigree and standing, threw away a heritage of power and respect, of secrets, and I know if no one else does that it's the man who holds the secrets who wins in the end, and he threw the Black family secrets away, when he wasn't refusing to learn them in the first place. He's opened up the cupboards for public airing. Literally cleared out the cobwebs and remnants of dark magic the strength of which the world has not seen, not even in The Dark Lord, for four hundred years.

And even the few things Black still possesses, he doesn't want. Do you know, one of my favourite pastimes is thinking of the life I would live were Grimmauld Place mine. I would clear away the doxies and puffskeins, of course. But I'd have kept the torture chamber hidden beneath the garden room which I don't believe you know I knew about. I'd have learned every nook, every loose floorboard, every disappearing chamber, every ornate treasure box.

I would learn its secrets, and hold them tight. My boots would echo through the rooms and no portraits would dare speak up in objection because I would do them the highest, darkest credit. I would be true to my heritage. I would hold to the bloodline, and when I walked through that house, I would know that I deserved it, and it deserved me.

I'd wield magic like a sword of justice, my justice. I would understand that the dark arts need not be evil. And I would be far more powerful than Tom Riddle could ever have hoped to be, in his fondest early memories, before he ever got sidetracked by ridiculous pet projects. Far more powerful than Dumbledore, hampered by his need to appear kindly. I could rule the world, had I what Black was born to. I would be doing it now.

And Black let it all go. More, he did throw it away. Deliberately. Is it any wonder I hate him?

Oh, I don't know why I'm telling you this. No, I do know. Because you're here, and listening. Because I've had more firewhiskey than is strictly good for me. Because I weary sometimes of keeping my own counsel. Mostly, though, I believe it's because we both know perfectly well that I have absolutely no intention of allowing you to step out of this filthy public house with this secret intact.

 _Obliviate._


End file.
